


Wish You Could Want Me Back

by ant5b



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991), Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 2018), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, But Nothing Too Bad, Drake Mallard's self esteem is either raging at 100 or barely hovering above a 5, Launchpad is a gift, M/M, Medical Procedures, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 19:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20158597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: Drake may deny himself many things, but he’ll never deny how much Launchpad means to him.





	Wish You Could Want Me Back

“You really didn’t have to come all the way out here, Launchpad,” Drake says, when the silence stretches to the point where he can hear the blare of foghorns from ships on the bay, the rumble of cars on the bridge below, seagulls crying from the harbor. He’s gritting his beak, gripping the edges of his stool so tightly his knuckles jut out. 

Launchpad huffs a small laugh, and Drake fiercely resists the urge to shiver at the gust of his breath against his bare back. 

“It’s nothing, DW,” Launchpad replies, his movements seamless and uninterrupted. “Besides, if I hadn’t come, I know you would’ve just tried to stitch yourself up and that wouldn’t have been pretty.”

“ _ Hey _ ,” Drake says, but bites off the rest of his retort as Launchpad pierces his shoulder with the needle once more, threading the thick sutures through skin and feathers to seal the jagged cut there. 

“That was one time,” he finishes, exhaling tightly through his nose. 

“One time too many,” Launchpad teases, too gentle for it to be biting, and Drake just wants to wrap himself in Launchpad’s voice, the warmth of his rolling timbre the world’s best security blanket. 

Drake may deny himself many things, but he’ll never deny how much Launchpad means to him. 

“How’d this even happen?” Launchpad asks, “I thought the guys at SHUSH gave you a fancy new suit?”

That’s an understatement. When Drake first set out as Darkwing Duck six months ago, Agent “Call me Mrs. Beakley” 22 approached him about joining S.H.U.S.H. in a consultant position. In exchange for his occasional assistance on high priority missions and attendance at all department meetings they’d give him tech and a functioning hideout that wasn’t his apartment. 

“And of course we’ll be replacing your uniform with something that isn’t made of spandex,” she’d sniffed, ignoring Drake’s indignant squawk of, “Triple-layer micromesh!”

But his new suit is admittedly better at protecting him from little things like bullets and knives, made of a lightweight but incredibly durable kevlar plating that doesn’t disrupt his silhouette or weigh him down. The only problem is that to retain ease of movement, he can’t exactly be wearing a full suit of armor. There are grooves between each plate where the material is thinner and he’s more susceptible to injury, but the SHUSH techs claimed that the likelihood of such a small weakness being exploited was highly improbable. 

Well, Drake’s always lived to defy expectations. 

“Some punk got lucky with their pocket knife,” Drake mutters, though it had really been more like a very big, very scary hunting knife. What was it with the people in St. Canard?

“Really lucky,” Launchpad observes, whistling quietly. “And you weren’t even gonna go to SHUSH central? They’ve basically got an entire hospital in there.”

Drake goes to shrug, but quickly thinks better of it. Launchpad’s tone makes something tighten at the base of his throat. The last thing he wants is Launchpad worrying about him. It’s also the  _ only  _ thing he wants, but he’s gotten better at denying himself when it comes to Launchpad. 

“It’s not that bad is it?” Drake says in jest.

And he’s sure it looks alright now, for an eight inch slash in the meat of his shoulder, with his feathers mostly cleaned and the bleeding staunched. But when he’d stumbled off the Ratcatcher after patrol his vision had been fading in and out and blood was dripping off the ends of his cape, speckling the ground. His hands are still tinged pink, and he clenches them in his lap. He’s not sure what spurred him to call Launchpad in the first place, to expose his weaknesses to him, his failure. 

“Nah,” Launchpad says, tugging Drake out of his dismal spiral. “Just gave me a scare is all, Drake. You know I hate to see you get hurt.” 

He briefly squeezes Drake’s arm on his uninjured side, and Drake’s breath stutters. 

“Yeah, well,” Drake starts to say, but finds he has no witty repartee to impart when he’s not fighting crime. The best he got is the urge to blurt out,  _ if you never move your hand I’ll never get hurt again,  _ and he clenches his jaw to keep the words from slipping off his treacherous tongue. 

“How’d you get so good at this?” Drake asks, to keep his mind off the burn of the needle, and because he could listen to Launchpad talk for hours. 

And he has, on phone calls late into the night where Launchpad describes in minute detail the fanscript he wrote for the  _ Darkwing Duck  _ finale that wasn’t (and filmed with Beakley, and isn’t that an interesting tidbit to bring up at the next SHUSH general meeting). Their conversations always starts out excited and bright, mellowing into something soft, slow, and nearly intimate as the night wears on and Launchpad’s voice roughens with lassitude. Sometimes Launchpad will fall asleep after they’ve been on the phone for hours, and Drake will wonder what it would be like to have these conversations face to face, laying together in bed and in each other’s arms. 

Drake has gotten better at denying himself Launchpad’s company, but he doesn’t think he could give up those phone calls for anything. 

Launchpad laughs, though neither his hands or the needle in them wavers. “Oh, I’ve had lots of practice. There was this secret agent I dated who was stubborn like you, never wanted to get checked out by the doctor after missions. I’d usually patch him up.”

“I’m not stubborn,” Drake mutters, because he never knows what to say when Launchpad casually brings up his dating history. 

“You’re one of the most stubborn people I know,” Launchpad says, chuckling a bit. 

Usually, there’s something about Launchpad’s laugh that even when he’s laughing at you it never feels like he’s laughing  _ at  _ you. But Drake has already begun to bristle, on the defensive for no real reason, and he snaps more than a little cruelly, “So, what then, I have your boyfriend to thank for this?”

He tastes ash in his mouth almost immediately. His irrational anger fleas as quickly as it appeared, and he’s more aware of his body than ever before. Launchpad’s hands are still on his half bared back, the suit hanging off one shoulder, bloody cape long since discarded. He shivers in the omnipresent chill of the Tower, flexing his hands in his lap. 

“Launchpad,” he says, choking on his apology, “I’m —”

“I actually learned from my mom,” Launchpad says, like Drake’s gaffe never happened. 

“Huh?” he replies, rather intelligently. His heart’s hammering loudly in his ears, nearly drowning out Launchpad’s voice. 

Launchpad squeezes Drake’s arm again, and it feels like forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. 

“Yeah,” Launchpad says, and he resumes suturing Drake’s shoulder. “Dad wasn’t the most graceful guy, and me and Loopy, that’s my sister, we were always running around and getting into trouble. We couldn’t always afford to go to the hospital for small stuff, so my mom made sure we all knew some first aid.”

“Did she teach you how to knit too?” Drake asks. He has the blanket Launchpad made for him for him “just because” back at his apartment. It’s purple and has the  _ Darkwing Duck _ logo stitched on it and it’s maybe the best gift he’s ever received. 

“Nope,” Launchpad replies, chuckling. “That was my dad.” 

Drake shakes his head, fondness welling up in him and he couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. “First aid, knitting, boxing, piano ; is there anything you can’t do?”

“Whistling,” Launchpad says immediately. “I always wanted to learn how to whistle. How else will people know when I’m just standing around innocently?”

“Stop making me laugh,” Drake says, already snorting. “It hurts to laugh.” 

“Almost done, DW,” Launchpad assures him in that low, gentle voice that always makes Drake feel warm. 

The silence between them is comfortable this time, and Drake has no urge to break it. His week of nonstop patrols is catching up with him, and exhaustion crashes against him in waves, each one chipping away at his concentration a little more. He hardly feels the sting and tug of the needle anymore as he begins to slump over on the stool. 

“What about your parents?” Launchpad asks, apropos of nothing, and Drake has never felt more awake. 

“Uh…” Drake scrambles for something to get himself out of answering honestly, but his mind feels like there’s a train blaring through it, rattling his brain around and making him more incapable of speech than usual. 

He’s distantly aware of the suture thread being pulled tight, his shoulder burning, and Launchpad says, “There! All done.” 

He goes to pat Drake’s uninjured shoulder, but Drake jumps off the stool at the first whisper of contact. 

“Thanks, LP,” he says, too fast, too cheerful, but he’s past the point of caring. He feels as though he’s unraveling, and he can’t have Launchpad seeing that. 

Drake starts to tug the empty sleeve of his suit back on, feeling more exposed now than he did during the actual suturing process. The wound on his shoulder immediately spikes in pain, and he has to stop moving to ride through it. 

Then there are familiar hands on him, gentle in a way he probably doesn’t deserve, and Launchpad is standing in front of him, helping him ease back into the suit. 

“You’ll pop your stitches if you’re not careful, Drake,” he says softly, but with an expression of such sobriety that Drake’s breath catches in his throat. 

“R-right,” he says haltingly. He doesn’t look at Launchpad, not that there’s any point in trying to hide now. Launchpad has a front row seat to the three act play that is Drake Mallard’s emotional turmoil, despite attempts to curtail him at the entrance of the theater. 

Launchpad doesn’t move his hands from Drake’s arms when he’s done helping him get the suit on. His grip isn’t confining, but there’s a weight to it that wasn’t there before, deepened by the way Launchpad won’t look away from his face. 

Drake is too focused on a crack in the concrete under their feet to see what expression Launchpad is sporting. 

“I asked about your parents because you’ve never talked about them before,” Launchpad says. 

Drake aims for nonchalance.“Oh, haven’t I?”

No, he hasn’t. 

“No, you haven’t.”

Drake starts to shrug, stopping when his shoulder twinges. “Well there’s not much to tell. Why...why do you want to know?”

Launchpad’s grip tightens and he ducks his head, trying to meet Drake’s gaze. “Because I’m worried about you,” he says plainly, and Drake stiffens. “I wanted to know if there was someone, anyone, for you to talk to. Someone else who knows your secret, who can help you out of tight spots.”

_ I have you,  _ Drake doesn’t say, because he doesn’t. Not in the way he wants. In the way that would be unfair of him to ask of Launchpad. 

“I haven’t spoken to my parents in almost ten years,” Drake responds shortly, and though it kills him to do it, he pulls away from Launchpad. “Besides, I’m fine. I’ve been Darkwing for six months, and I’m not dead yet.”

Launchpad doesn’t follow him, but he doesn’t drop it either.

“You don’t look so good, Drake,” he says bluntly, but so so gently, as if the words themselves were glass. Drake is certain he could shatter and mend on the way Launchpad says his name alone. 

Drake huffs a laugh, but his voice is hoarse. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious,” Launchpad says, and he looks it. Drake doesn’t think he can remember Launchpad so worried, his brow furrowed and his shoulders a tense, straight line. 

“You got hurt bad today, Drake. Because you’re out there on your own. And I don’t know why you called  _ me _ , since you wouldn’t even call SHUSH, but I’m glad you did, because the thought of you stitching yourself up, alone here, I…” 

Launchpad snaps his beak shut and looks away. His chest is heaving, though he didn’t even raise his voice, and he blinks hard a few times. 

A boulder drops hard and fast to the base of Drake’s stomach, flooding him with guilt because this is his fault. Drake’s the reason for the exhaustion and stress lining Launchpad’s face, his trembling hands. 

“SHUSH offered me a partner,” Drake finds himself blurting, which isn’t what he meant to say _ at all.  _

Launchpad goggles at him incredulously. “I’m sorry?”

Drake wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole, nevermind the several hundred foot drop between him and the bridge below. 

“SHUSH offered me a partner,” he says again, forcing the words past his beak. “Agent Gryzlikoff. I turned them down.”

“ _ Why _ ?” Launchpad insists, looking aghast. 

Drake can’t stand to be the focus of that stare, certain that the answer must be plain on his face. He throws his arms out harshly at his sides, never mind the way it makes his injured shoulder burn.

“Gryzlikoff’s a legacy agent, and it shows. He’s impossible to talk to, much less work with.” 

“What-what about another agent?” Launchpad says, voice high and tight with worry, “You’ve gotta have tons of options.”

Drake’s exhausted. He’s barely caught a handful of hours of sleep in the last week, his wound sings like he’s being stabbed all over again, and Launchpad is pushing buttons that he was never even meant to see. 

He’s gotten better at filtering what he says to Launchpad, never giving him enough pieces of the puzzle to paint a full picture. But Drake is tired now. He’s tired, and he’s aching, and it’s all too easy for him to react on instinct, to snap, “Well, I don’t  _ want  _ anyone else.”

He comes back to his senses in the ensuing silence, the empty air between them as cavernous as the space where his heart used to be. It’s too much; too close to the truth, the stupid, selfish want that Drake has denied himself for six months. 

“Drake,” Launchpad says, sounding so shocked it’s practically a statement. 

Drake turns around, staring unseeingly at the Ratcatcher. “You should probably get going. It’s late —or early I guess, technically. McDuck’s gonna need you—”

“ _ Drake _ ,” Launchpad says again. 

“—thanks again for your help. I know the traffic heading over is no picnic—”

Launchpad’s hands are on him again, and Drake could die happily if they never moved. But the hands begin to tug, turning Drake back around to face him, and Drake goes because as much as he might deny himself, he can’t deny Launchpad a single thing. 

All the same, he can’t bring himself to look higher than Launchpad’s chest, focusing instead on the collar of his striped blue pajama shirt. There’s a rust colored stain there that Drake knows is his blood, because Launchpad answered his three AM phone call, groggy and panicked, rushed over without bothering to fully change out of his pajamas, took Drake’s bloodied shoulder in his hands and said, “you’re going to be okay, DW.”

Drake knows all of this, but he remains terrified of what he’ll find in Launchpad’s face if he were to look, and the possibilities engulf him. He imagines pity, he imagines apology or discomfort, or some combination of the three because Launchpad may like him, but not like  _ that _ . Drake isn’t that lucky. 

Launchpad’s hands are around Drake’s arms again, his grip feather-light. When Launchpad wants to get Drake’s attention he usually grabs him by the shoulder, like Drake’s a stable point for him to cling to when his excitement has him nearly hopping in place. But now it’s like Drake is the one spinning out of control and Launchpad is grounding him with the pressure of his palms alone. Logically, he would say Launchpad was just trying to avoid his injury, and refute any further significance to the gesture. But even through the material of his suit, Drake can feel Launchpad’s thumb rubbing over his bicep, searing as any brand. 

Then Launchpad’s hands drift down, brushing every inch of Drake’s arms along the way, to pick up Drake’s hands, clutching them in the space between their bodies. 

“Hey,” Launchpad murmurs, and the smile in his voice is audible. “Please look at me.”

Drake’s last breath is stuck somewhere in his throat, and a large part of his brain has trouble comprehending the feeling of Launchpad’s hands wrapped around his own, but he manages a stilted nod. With great effort he raises his head and meets Launchpad’s gaze. 

Launchpad’s expression is soft, his smile a small, breathtaking thing. He looks tired, his hair mussed and hanging low over his forehead, and Drake has to resist the urge to brush it back. 

But his expression sharpens, the sleepiness giving way to a gravity Drake hardly comprehends. 

“All you have to do is ask,” Launchpad murmurs, like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. He squeezes Drake’s hands. 

Terror is an ice cold needle piercing his chest, flooding him anew with doubt and denial. 

Drake drops Launchpad’s hands, jerking back so harshly he feels a fresh wave of stinging pain in his shoulder. He isn’t able to speak until he’s a handful of steps away, where Launchpad’s gaze doesn’t make him feel too hot and too cold all at once. 

“I’m fine,” he bites out, but it sounds weak even to his ears, “today was just a stupid mistake. You don’t need to worry.”

The last thing Drake wants is for Launchpad to feel obligated to help him, to be near him, to lo—to  _ care _ about him. He can’t risk asking, never knowing if Launchpad chose to stay, or felt he had no choice but to. 

But Launchpad says, “Of course I’m going to worry!” as if it were obvious. He doesn’t move closer, but his expression is imploring, eyes wide and vulnerable.

“You’re my best friend, Drake,” he says quietly. “Don’t you realize how much you matter to me?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, but Drake has to fight the impulse to ask,  _ how much? How do you quantify it, categorize it? How does Drake Mallard measure up? _

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Launchpad is saying, but even now Drake doesn’t dare hope. How can he, when everything will be ruined if he’s wrong?

Still, it feels a little like he’s fighting a losing game as he stands with hunched shoulders, which he’s sure isn’t doing any favors for Launchpad’s careful suturing. He nervously clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides. 

“Darkwing Duck doesn’t have a sidekick,” he says weakly. 

“I’m not talking about Darkwing Duck,” Launchpad replies, so tenderly Drake’s knees almost give out. He blames it on the blood loss. 

Launchpad approaches him now, his movements gentle as he reaches for Drake’s hand. His grip tethers Drake to the reality of this moment. 

“What do you want, Drake?” Launchpad asks. 

Drake shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. McDuck—McDuck needs you.” He hears Launchpad’s breath hitch, and he swallows against an abruptly desert-dry throat. “I can’t—I won’t ask—”

“ _ Drake _ ,” Launchpad says, laughing a little. When Drake risks a glance at Launchpad’s face he’s smiling, eyes glinting with the sheen of tears. “What do  _ you  _ want?”

He’s never been able to deny Launchpad anything. Not even the truth. 

“You,” Drake says, “I want you... to-to stay with me.”

Launchpad tugs Drake’s hand until he steps forward, and promptly engulfs him in his embrace. He lets go of Drake’s hand to cup the back of his head, and wraps an arm around the small of his back. 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Launchpad murmurs. 

Drake wants nothing more than to melt into Launchpad’s arms. He wants to laugh until he’s out of breath. He wants to cry. He thinks he’d like to try kissing Launchpad. But the burning pain in his shoulder has actually gotten worse, and he squirms involuntarily. 

Launchpad sighs. “You popped your stitches didn’t you?”

“Maybe a little bit.”


End file.
